Bio: Kelly currently lives in Japan, where she divides her time among eating sushi, singing karaoke, and writing.  Come September, she will begin work on an MFA in Creative Writing at Florida Internaional University.

"Bean" was previously publish in The Storyteller, Spring 2004.

Bean

by Kelly Luce

“Is that a goldfish in my new coffee pot?”

Helen squinted her faded green eyes at the kitchen table. Walter had been experimenting lately, but this was ridiculous.

“Oh yeah,” Walter called from the living room. “His name’s Bean. Did you know that fish have healing powers? Talking to them, just like talking to plants, calms the body and can extend your lifespan by twenty years.”

Helen walked to the doorway and looked at her husband, who was stretched out on the carpet like a potbellied starfish.

“Fine, Walter, but really—the coffeepot?”

“Ah, see, my yoga teacher told me coffee closes the chakras—those are the key gateways for energy flow—so I thought we could switch to tea. Plus, it was the only thing clean.”

Helen's chest tightened, but she took a deep breath and pulled her face into a sympathetic smile. Her ability to do this dissolved the annoyance immediately, and she reflected on Walter’s recent behavior: the spontaneous road trip to Mexico, the backpacking equipment that lay unused in the garage, the consultations with plastic surgeons. This week it was the yoga and the fish. It was only a matter of time.

“How about we move him,” she suggested slowly, thoughtfully. “I have a nice big mixing bowl in the dish washer. Or, even better, I’ll pick up a real fishbowl when I go out.”

“No, you can’t do that,” Walter said, eyes closed. “He just got settled in, the last thing he needs is more trauma. It would throw everything off.”

So he stayed there, a centerpiece on the kitchen table. Every morning, Bean swam in calm circles while Walter read out loud what he considered to be the more interesting parts of the newspaper. Occasionally, he would glance over the headlines and see a magnified eyeball flash by through the curved glass.

Two weeks later, Helen’s sleep was interrupted by one of Walter’s snoring fits. She lay in bed, her mind fluttering over the relentless rhythm. She sat up suddenly, trembling, put on her slippers, and padded softly to the kitchen.

It started out simply enough: a snide comment about the neighbors, a complaint about Walter’s lack of help around the house. Then there was more to say, each remark unraveling something wound tightly inside her—she was too young for varicose veins! What happened to her dream of traveling through Africa? Why had she gotten married so young? Where was all the time she’d been counting on having to do—everything?

Bean absorbed it all.

She fell into bed just before dawn, emptied, and awoke feeling younger than she had in years.

A familiar smell greeted her as she entered the kitchen.

“Fish died,” said Walter, sipping his coffee.
 
 

©Kelly Luce